


Adverse Reactions

by redrobinfection (ChristmasRivers)



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Medication, Pain, focus is on Tim, hints of JayTim, timdrakeweek2k17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 04:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11524710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristmasRivers/pseuds/redrobinfection
Summary: Tim knows how to take a punch, but he still doesn't know when to take his medicine when it's good for him. The Batfam calls him out on it. Drama ensues. Answers come forth. How will they find a way to make everyone happy and Tim well again, too?





	Adverse Reactions

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a while back, but when I found out about the Tim Drake Week happening on tumblr this week only a short time ago, I decided to finish it as a fill for Day 5: Injury/Recovery. Enjoy!

"His heart rate is too high," Dick muttered to no one in particular.

"Mmm, indeed, and his blood pressure is also quite high, for that matter," Alfred replied. Dick shot the elderly butler a glance that Alfred met with a quirk of an eyebrow and a nod, while the subject of their discussion twitched his leg in irritation, only to stiffen and bite back a moan.

Several modest-sized gashes to his arms, chest and shoulders, one deep puncture wound to his leg, a twisted ankle, several bruised ribs - maybe a fracture or two - and a mild concussion pretty much summed up the kind of night Tim was having. The _worst_ kind.

"Tim, I know you don't like it but…"

"No."

"Tim-"

"No, I know what you're going to suggest." Tim paused to wince as Alfred lifted his injured arm a tad higher so he could continue stitching a gash that looped all the way under Tim's triceps. The movement unintentionally aggravated the ache in Tim's ribs.  "And the answer is no."

Alfred murmured a low apology as he shifted the limb even higher. Dick made a face as the numbers on the vitals monitor rose as the movement sent sharp lances of pain through Tim's chest.

"Tim, come on-"

"No, I won't take anything. It's not that bad."

Dick turned and raised an eyebrow. He stared pointedly, first at Tim, then at the incriminating numbers, and then back at Tim again, silently challenging Tim to try and tell him again that it didn't hurt so badly. Tim shook his head wordlessly, refusing to give in.

"Master Tim," Alfred chimed in as he tied off the final suture, "consider the disrespect it would be to my time and handiwork if, not long after completion, you simply bled through your stitches, hmm?"

Tim broke away from his staring contest with Dick to stare down at his hands guiltily. "It's fine, Alfred. I’ll rest after this. I'll calm down. It'll be fine."

Dick made a noise and threw his hands up in frustration. "It's bad enough we had to fight you just to use local anesthetic for the stitches, but if just the act of _moving_ you aggravates the rest of it, what makes you think that once the lidocaine wears off that you'll even be able to sleep with all of…" Dick gestured wildly to all of Tim, " _that?_ "

Throughout Dick’s rant Tim tried to take one deep breath after another -  ignoring the stabs of pain it sent through his ribs - fighting desperately to keep his cool. However, judging by the increasingly worried glances Alfred sent Tim's rising heart rate readout and the recently-refreshed, recently-increased blood pressure reading, it was clearly a fight Tim was not winning. Alfred reached out to lay a calming hand on Dick's shoulder.

"That is enough, Master Dick. I think you've made your concerns quite clear," he intoned with finality, softening his rebuke slightly by giving Dick a commiserating nod and a gentle pat on the shoulder. Tim let out a sigh of relief, but Alfred hadn't finished.

"However, _Master Timothy_ " - Tim winced at the use of his full name and wilted under Alfred's disapproving stare - "Master Dick has a valid point. You need your rest. Good quality rest. You won't be getting much of that if it is too painful for you to lie down or if your wounds bleed through the stitching because we can't keep your blood pressure and heart rate down."

Tim nodded along to Alfred's words with a pained expression - one that had little to do with his wounds and everything to do with disappointing the kindly butler. He opened his mouth - to apologize or to defend his choices or both - but Alfred went on.

"That said, I suggest a compromise: We will respect your desire to avoid analgesics, under observation."

"Thank y-"

" _However,_ if the apparent stress, as indicated by your body's automatic responses" - he shot a pointed look towards the monitors and then another towards the mirror hanging over the sink across from them, prompting Tim to glance at both; the numbers weren't a surprise, but he grimaced at how pale and sweaty and plain _bad-off_ he looked in the reflection - "has not dropped to a reasonable level by the time Masters Bruce and Damian return, you _will_ accept an appropriate amount of pain relief, enough to allow you to sleep pain-free until morning. Is that acceptable?"

Tim waffled for a few moments, torn, until Dick sidled closer to reassert his point by gently poking Tim in the side. Dick was particularly careful to avoid hitting any of Tim's many sore ribs while still managing to twinge most of them. Tim batted Dick away with a bit off cry and a dark glare, but ultimately gave in to Alfred's suggestion. "Yeah, okay, that's fair."

"Very good, sir," Alfred responded smoothly. The tension drained out of Dick's posture and he shot Tim a relieved grin.

"Give me a few moments to attend to Master Dick's various scuffs and bruises and then I'll be right back to set you up to rest comfortably until the masters return," Alfred finished with a kindly smile, nodding once to Tim before turning on Dick as the other man started backing away and peeling off his uniform with low assurances to Alfred that he could take care of his little scrapes for himself and that Alfred should continue focusing on Tim.

True to his word, Alfred ignored Dick's mumbled protests and spent the next fifteen minutes helping him strip out of his suit and look over his bumps and bruises. Once satisfied that Dick could handle applying salve to his own minimal bruising once he'd showered, Alfred ascended to the kitchen to procure refreshments.

When he returned, Alfred supervised as Tim downed a tall glass of water, an iron supplement pill, and several of his (Alfred’s) famous fortified oatmeal cookies, then, once satisfied Tim would be okay on his own, the elderly butler left Tim with a small mug of decaf coffee and several more cookies that Tim didn't touch so that he could return to the Batcomputer to continue monitoring patrol.

Dick emerged from the showers a few minutes later and quickly tucked into the regular coffee, tea, and cookies Alfred had left at the general workbench. Dick then persisted to lounge around by the refreshments in his sweats and t-shirt, occasionally answering questions from or shooting comments to Alfred, but it was clear Dick only hung around so that he could dart furtive glances at Tim when he thought Tim wouldn't notice.

Tim _did_ notice, but he tried his best for the hour and forty-eight minutes that followed to pretend he _didn't_ see the many assessing glances Dick and Alfred shot his way during that time, one every couple minutes, until, after an hour or so, they finally seemed satisfied Tim wasn’t going to pass out or start bleeding at random, and backed down to only a glance every ten minutes or so.

The beep function on the pulse monitor was disabled, and if he focused, Tim could almost ignore the occasional re-inflation of the brachial blood pressure cuff on his good arm, but it was hard for Tim to ignore the monitor window Alfred had open on one of the Batcomputer's screens, and foolish for him to pretend that Alfred couldn't see past the calm, pain free posture Tim tried to project.

But, honestly, Tim wanted to pass out. He wanted nothing more right then than to be dead to the world, to escape the pain entirely while his body attempted to heal itself, however his stubborn resolve to avoid any sort of painkillers or sedatives would never allow him to admit that to anyone, much the less a meddlesome worrywart like Dick or an implacable force of grandfatherly concern like Alfred.

Unfortunately, just as Dick had predicted, the lidocaine had begun to wear off almost as soon as Alfred had finished stitching him, and as it faded the full load of the pain began to weigh on him.

In the beginning, breathing exercises and careful meditation were enough to kept his mind off of the hurt and kept him from feeling it except in the most tangential way, but as the minutes ticked on and the intensity of pain increased, it became harder and harder to concentrate. Tim tried to convince himself that each new sting from the slashes, every deep throb from his ankle, and each sudden spike of pain from his ribs wasn't so bad, wasn't any worse than the last, but the increasing discomfort was like a storm-swollen river beating at the banks of his resolve - each surge of pain shaved off a little bit more of his control.

A steady throb inside his skull and thick blanket of woozy dizziness from the mild concussion he kept forgetting about didn't help either; it cut into his concentration considerably and threatened a spectacular headache for later on top of everything else. With the dizziness came mild nausea. The food and drink Alfred had forced onto him earlier churned unpleasantly in his stomach. Then came the chills and tremors; he desperately clenched down on the shivers uncertain whether that reaction was to the pain alone or if it was also a sign of an oncoming fever as well.

Eventually the minutes began to drag until they started to feel like hours. At one point, Dick tried suggesting Tim lie back and close his eyes for a bit, but, afraid that the change in position would only make it that much harder to concentrate, Tim only relented so far as to let Dick bring the back of the hospital bed up so that Tim could remain upright but could lean back against the firm cushioning. He tried his best to breathe as deeply and evenly as possible as the movement jostled his sore ribs.

Minute by minute, second by second, Tim struggled to regulate his breathing, to calm his pulse, and to ease the tension - physical and mental -  that had pushed his vitals so out-of-whack. As he clung desperately to the ragged edges of his meditation techniques, awareness of the cave around him slipped further and further away, the waves of pain pushing him deeper and deeper into his own head.

So nearly two hours after Alfred had finished treating him - two hours of unmitigated suffering in silence – it was no surprise that he barely noticed the roar of the Batmobile that announced Batman and Robin's return. He vaguely heard the growl of other vehicles, the deep rumble of Bruce’s voice, the warbling prepubescent tone of Damian’s among other things he couldn’t name. At some point his eyes had slipped shut in spite of himself, but Tim was afraid to open them now to see who had come in lest he lose what remained of his tattered concentration.

He vaguely registered a disparaging remark from Damian at the sight of him sitting in the med bay in bandages, but Dick cut in quickly, effectively distracting the younger man. He lost track of the conversations after that, only vaguely registering that Bruce spoke quietly to Alfred over by the control console while Damian bit out incensed responses to Dick's playful banter.

All was fine until a voice spoke up within arm's reach.

"Eyyyyyyy, Alfred's oatmeal cookies! You gonna eat those, Timbo, or do you mind if I snag a few?" Jason asked.

Tim jumped. The husky tones of his boyfriend's voice shattered the numbing silence he'd wrapped around his mind, jerking him from that deep place inside back to total, painful awareness in an instant. He had to bite back a yelp as the motion sent lances of pain across the wounds crisscrossing his upper body. If the pain had been unbearable before, it seemed twice as bad now that his concentration had been broken.

"Y-yeah. That's fine," Tim answered breathlessly, trying to imbue the words with as much strength and good humor as he could around the pain.

But something about his voice or his expression must have tipped Jason off because the taller man frowned, then leaned down to peer into Tim's face. "Hey, you doin' okay, babybird? You're lookin' a little pale there, kid."

To Tim's chagrin, Jason's well-intentioned queries immediately drew the attention of Alfred and Dick, as well as a probing glance from Bruce. It was in that moment that Bruce leaned down to study the remote monitoring window open on the Batcomputer's monitor and he frowned at the name and numbers displayed therein. Alfred also took a moment to glance over the display and then, with a sigh, spun in the chair and rose to make his way back to Tim's bedside with a clearly apologetic expression on his face.

"Well, Master Tim, Masters Bruce and Damian have returned, however, it would seem the pain from your injuries has not subsided on its own. So, as per the agreement, it's high time we administered something to 'take the edge off' - as they say - don't you say?" Alfred intoned smoothly as he stepped up beside Jason.

"Agreement…?" Bruce muttered, while he frowned between the readings on the monitor, his butler, and the pale young man shaking his head and looking more and more distressed by the second. "Alfred, what 'agreement'?"

"Ah," Alfred sighed, frowning for a moment at his young charge before stepping over to a side cabinet and removing an oral thermometer. "Master Tim and Master Dick had a bit of a rough night - they came limping in about two hours prior to your return" - Damian chose that moment let out a loud '-tt-' and throw a look of exasperation in Tim and Dick's direction, but to everyone’s credit, no one rose to the provocation - "and Master Tim in particular took a fair bit of damage," Alfred explained as he slipped the thermometer under the tongue of a stricken-faced Tim.

"He'll be right as rain with a good night's sleep, a good meal, and a day's rest, but in the meantime Master Dick and I have been trying to persuade the Master Tim that he would rest easier if only he would accept some medication to ease the pain."

"Ah" was the only response Bruce gave to the succinct explanation, but the knowing, disapproving glare he sent Tim's way conveyed plenty to make up for what he didn't say.

Jason, on the other hand, wasn't so taciturn.

"What the hell, babybird? Why are you always like this? Even _I_ know when to drop the tough-guy act, shut up, and take my medicine. Jeez, what's so wrong with taking a painkiller every now and then?"

Tim shook his head mutely, nodding to the thermometer under his tongue as an excuse to avoid answering. Alfred removed said thermometer shortly thereafter and shook it unnecessarily as he also shook his head at the digital readout, directing his next words to his ailing patient.

"You've developed a bit of a fever, Master Tim, and your heart rate is still quite high for someone who has been sitting quietly for over an hour, so without question, I recommend an oral antibiotic and some form of analgesic," Alfred advised sternly but gently.

Tim shook his head faster. "Alfred, please…"

"Tim, it makes sense. Don't argue with sense, and don't fight your own body. Give it what it needs and rest up. That's an order," Bruce added in a firm tone.

"Bruce, Alfred…" Tim's wide eyes darted between his two mentors in anguish and growing panic.

"Stop fighting it, babybird. Let them fix you up."

"Jason's right, Timmy. Bruce is right. Let Alfred take care of you and make things better. You'll be glad you di-"

**_*SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*_ **

A sharp blare from the med bay's monitor system interrupted their well-intentioned browbeating, a sound that a quick glance at the screens confirmed was an alert for tachycardia – i.e. a dangerously rapid pulse. The group around Tim froze with mixed reactions of shock, alarm, and disbelief.

For Tim, the shrill noise shattered what little remaining composure he had left and then, all of a sudden, it was all just too much.

He yanked the offending pulse-ox clip off his finger in fit of emotion and threw it away from himself vehemently, ignoring the sounds of dismay and disapproval from those around him in favor of focusing on trying to ride out the flood of adrenaline and agony that tore through him, struggling desperately to not drown in the overwhelming tide of fear, anger and stress caused and exacerbated by having been backed so far into the proverbial corner by his well-meaning family.

His breaths came in rapid, near-panicked gasps. He struggled to slow them to a pace that didn't send stabs of agony through his side with every wheeze while his hands and legs shook uncontrollably. His expression pinched as wave after nauseating wave of pain and frustration washed over him.

Alfred was stunned speechless by Tim's outburst, but just as quickly his expression morphed to concern, clearly remorseful at having unintentionally caused Tim additional distress. It took Bruce, Dick, and Jason longer to overcome their stupefaction at Tim's unexpectedly extreme reaction to their concern. Only Damian didn't seem to be shocked by what had transpired, and it was _he_ who calmly retrieved the clip off the floor and slowly approached Tim's bedside with a wary expression.

"Really, Drake, why the dramatics?" Damian questioned, voice quiet, almost as if he were approaching a spooked horse or a skittish cat. He continued in a slow, steady tone, as if trying to share the calm he displayed with Tim along with the words. "If you do not wish relief from minor pains, then that proves you a tougher man than I had estimated,” Damian admitted. The unexpected, backhanded compliment threw Tim for a loop, and Damian took full advantage of the momentary distraction to smoothly slip the sensor back onto his brother’s index finger. The alarm didn't blare again, but the numbers were still much too high. Damian pushed on carefully.

"However, if the intense pain you are experiencing - whether you choose to show it or not - will, without a doubt, eventually interfere with the healing process, thereby extending the time in which it will take you to heal and, thus, extending the time during which your injuries will pain you - a self-defeating cycle if ever there was one - then, clearly, you of all people, must have some strong passion or reason for avoiding logical pharmacological intervention."

Damian paused to frown, though to Tim's surprise, it didn't seem to be a disdainful or condescending frown; rather it seemed to be a thoughtful grimace, as if Damian felt a legitimate desire to understand Tim's perspective. It was that, more than any concern from Alfred or chiding from Dick, Jason, or Bruce that broke through Tim's reluctance to explain himself.

"If so, then answer Todd's query: what is the problem with relying on painkillers on rare occasion?"

Tim swallowed and took a few halting breaths around the pain before choking out, "I don't… I c-cant…"

"What can you not do, Timothy?" Damian prompted calmly, earning a startled blink from Bruce and blatant stares from Jason and Dick at Damian's uncharacteristic use of Tim's first name.

"I can't handle what it does to me," Tim finally spit out. The profound silence that followed was broken only by the muted scuffling of the bats deep in the cave and the quiet sounds of Tim's labored breathing. His family remained silent, at long last giving Tim the chance he needed to explain his side of things.

"It's not that I like it. Pain, that is. I don't. Not pain like this. And, uh, yeah, just to be clear: it _hurts._ It definitely hurts. Like hell," he grit out, his brow furrowing as he concentrated through the pain and fogginess to find the right words. "I would give anything to just pass out right now, you know, and not have to feel _any_ of this but…"

Dick opened his mouth to interject, but a glance from Damian and a gentle touch on the shoulder from Alfred quickly silenced him. Damian motioned for Tim to continue.

"…but I hate the way the drugs make me feel even more," Tim panted, stopping briefly to catch his breath. This time Bruce opened his mouth as if to speak, but faltered as Tim's expression took on a pinched look of determination.

"Fuzzy, floaty, vulnerable…I just feel so… _exposed_ when I take most of them. That or I'll feel marginally better, but not _really_ , and then when they wear off I feel twice as worse."

Tim swallowed against the dry fuzzy feeling in his throat and pressed a hand against his chest as if that could hold back the spike of panic he felt at opening up to them like this. He could feel his heart racing under his palm, trying to beat itself out of his chest. He rooted himself in that sensation and distracted himself from the nerves that threatened to throw him off his line of thought by focusing on physical task of trying try to calm the frenetic rhythm with steady breaths and by releasing the tension in his upper body. When he felt a small measure of calm finally wash over him, he went on.

"An occasional ibuprofen is about as much as I feel comfortable taking, but it never does anything for pain worse than a mild headache, and I don't  like taking it for fevers because of how weird it makes me feel afterwards… some kind of 'shaky-but-not shaky' thing I don't even know how describe.

"Sometimes I'll take cold or allergy medications, but, for the most part, those either don't do much at all for me - and then why even bother taking them at all – and/or I just feel… I don’t know, 'off', I guess, when I take them. And then opioids like codeine or morphine?" The shudder that rocked him at the thought of those two said enough about how he felt about opioids and he didn't feel the urge to add more.

Tim coughed suddenly and Jason stepped forward to run a hand up and down his back soothingly. Jason didn’t back away even once tickle in his throat had passed and the fit ended, but Tim pressed on, gaining strength from the admissions now that the panic was receding. He needed to say this, needed them to know.

"Sedatives make it hard for me to move or feel, but for whatever reason, the effects never quite get down to the mental level, so it's kind of like being paralyzed and numb but still mostly awake. And unless I'm knocked _all_ the way out" - Tim shuddered heavily and coughed again, giving Jason pause where he rubbed at Tim’s back - "excuse me, knocked all the way out - with the hardcore stuff and paralytics and all that - I experience something similar, but less pronounced, to what I experience with sedatives. At least being anesthetized lowers my level of consciousness far enough that I only sporadically remember being jostled or poked at."

Tim barked a low laugh, winced and slid the hand on his chest down to press at his sore ribs then added, "I actually remember bits and pieces of having my wisdom teeth pulled."

Bruce's eyes widened at that and Alfred muttered a quiet "good lord" from the side. Jason resumed rubbing at Tim's back, now with a little more vigor, as if encouraging him to get it all out.

Tim barked out another bitter laugh. "And don't even get me started on how diazepam does nothing for me but still manages to give me weeks of withdrawal symptoms or what happens if I forget I've taken pseudoephedrine and then drink coffee or…"

Damian nodded wordlessly, understanding. Alfred shook his head while Bruce stared at Tim as if he were seeing him - really seeing him - for the first time. Dick made a pained noise and raised one hand as if to reach out to Tim, but held himself back.

Tim raised a hand and scrubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes; the pain and stress had started to make them water. Jason sat down beside him on the bed and peered questioningly into his face. Tim gave him a tight grin, but shook his head, taking a deep, shaky breath. Jason went back to rubbing at his back with one hand while the other slipped into Tim's free hand and twisted their fingers together in Tim's lap.

All the talking was making him feel lightheaded, but maybe that was just the relief. Or the concussion. Or the fever. Or all of it together. One way or another, he shook it off. He had to finish. They had to understand.

"I just don't like feeling so _manipulated_ by the chemicals," Tim choked out. "As I explained, my body hardly ever reacts to them the way it's supposed to and it just feels so out of control. I’m always very wary of taking medication. When I do, even if I’ve taken it before, I can never be entirely sure how it’s going to turn out or if I’m going to be okay. It’s so unpredictable. So often I just end up… it just feels so… it's just… messed up. Really messed up. And I hate it."

It was hard, getting that last bit out, and Tim definitely felt like he could have explained himself better - would have explained everything better under better circumstances - but now that the truth was out, it felt… _good_ in a way he couldn't really describe. He sagged forward against Jason's shoulder, still panting slightly - in relief, now, more than distress - and Jason released Tim’s hand so he could wrap both arms around him.

"Thanks for tellin’ us, babybird; I got you, we got you, now; shhhh, you're good," Jason murmured into his hair, rubbing his hands up and down along Tim's back soothingly.

Alfred stepped forward and raised a gentle hand to Tim's shoulder to catch his attention. Tim turned his head to look at the older man.

"Yes, thank you for letting us into your confidence on this matter, Master Timothy. I hadn't the faintest - _none_ of us had even the foggiest notion you were suffering such unusual effects to the medications you were taking." Alfred paused, pursing his lips in consideration. "We’re still left with the pressing issue, however, of how to deal with your present situation."

Tim nodded in reluctant agreement against Jason’s shoulder. He couldn’t run from it anymore; they had to do _something_ about this pain.

"I'd rather not give you any painkillers that would cause you any secondary distress," Alfred assured him, "but from the brief list you described, there is not much left to our disposal, is there?"

Tim grimaced and raised his head to shake it soundlessly. Jason backed off and asked, "So no morphine?"

Tim blanched and shook his head emphatically. Jason sighed, but nodded as if he had expected that.

"What about tramadol or codeine?" Dick suggested hesitantly. Tim continued shaking his head vigorously until it started to make him dizzy – well, _dizzier_.

"Co-codaprin?" Bruce interjected, naming a variety of pain reliever that combined aspirin with a very small amount codeine and caffeine – something that was hard to get in the US, but that Batman had made a point to bring in for situations when they needed moderate relief but didn't want the haze from the codeine.

"-Tt-" Damian scoffed, shaking his head in Tim's stead. "I think opioids are most certainly off the table; Drake has made clear his dislike for them on more than one occasion." Damian frowned, then turned to Tim. "And aren’t you allergic to aspirin?"

Tim nodded. Dick sighed in exasperation and Jason shook his head. Bruce looked mildly embarrassed for having forgotten that fact, an unusual occurrence for the Batman, to say the least.

Alfred, however, nodded with a thoughtful expression. "Aspirin and opioids are all clearly out of the question, and with the broken ribs and a mild concussion, I am hesitant to suggest any NSAIDs, though I don’t suppose they would have much of an effect for pain this severe, in the any case, would they?" Alfred conceded with a nod to Tim and a twinkle in his eye. Alfred’s acknowledgement of what Tim had explained a few minutes earlier lifted the corners of Tim’s mouth into a quiet smile.

"However, perhaps, we could come to a compromise on a low dose of acetaminophen paired with an antihistamine? To give you a little relief and maybe to help you to sleep?"

Tim frowned uncertainly but didn't immediately shoot the suggestion down. "M-maybe. I've never tried acetaminophen before…"

"What?!" Dick exclaimed incredulously. "Are you trying to tell me you've never taken _Tylenol_ before?"

Tim shot him a heated glare. "Dick, I _avoid_ taking medication. Up until now I've tried to avoid as much of everything I could, so, yeah, when it comes to over-the-counter meds, the weak stuff Alfred and Bruce wouldn't have ever bullied me into taking at one point or another over the span of my Robin career because they were too busy pushing the big stuff like morphine and shit on me for the serious injuries, yeah, after putting up with the shitty reactions to all of strong stuff, no, I've never tried acetaminophen and I've never been tempted to."

The silence that followed _that_ outburst was deafening. Tim blushed heavily, then murmured a low, ashamed apology to Alfred and Bruce. Bruce shook his head to deny the apology while Alfred nodded solemnly in agreement with the outburst.

"No, it's all right, my boy. We thought we were doing you a favor by convincing you to take all those things over the years, however, considering what you've told us tonight, we should have considered your objections more carefully, regardless of your age or inexperience," Alfred admitted quietly. Bruce nodded in agreement. Tim was grateful to them both for that admission.

 " _However_ , we still need an answer from you, Master Tim. Will you give the acetaminophen a chance?" Alfred asked, fixing Tim with his best, worst 'Alfred' stare.

Tim hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fingers in his lap tightly. Jason huffed a laugh, leaned in to kiss his temple, and murmured a low, "no pressure" into his hairline. It helped to break the tension and, a moment later, Tim grinned slightly as he took a 'deep' breath - deepish; hell, but his ribs _hurt_ \- and nodded.

"Yeah, let's give it a shot and see how it goes."

Damian nodded, satisfied, then stomped off towards the showers without a word.

Bruce followed, with one last glance and a nod – almost apologetic by Bruce-standards – for Tim. Bruce probably intended to question Damian, to try to find out when it was that Damian had started paying attention to Tim's likes, dislikes, and allergies – almost as if Damian had started _caring_ or something. Tim doubted that Bruce, or anyone, would get much out of the kid, but Tim couldn't bring himself to care all that much right then. He was simply grateful.

Alfred smiled, pleased at Tim's response and Dick beamed brightly in relief.

"Very good, Master Tim. I'll retrieve that for you and then we'll remove you to the upstairs so you can get some well-deserved rest," Alfred replied, turning to the dispensary drawers. He paused a moment, then turned back and asked in a dry, teasing tone, "Have you any reservations towards antibiotics I should be aware of at this time?"

Tim huffed a laugh and shook his head. "Thank god, no - all antibiotics are cool for me."

Alfred smiled kindly in reply and turned back to rifling through drawers for the needed medications.

"Alrighty, Timbo, let's get you up to your room pronto," Jason said, standing and sliding his hands carefully under Tim's legs as if he intended to carry Tim up in his arms.

"No, dammit,” Tim cursed, pushing Jason’s hands away. “Back up, Jason. I can walk on my own." He removed the vital monitoring equipment himself and pushed himself toward the edge of the bed.

"Hey, hey, hey, wait now," Dick exclaimed, jumping forward and throwing an arm across Tim's chest to stop him. "You have a twisted ankle, Tim, not to mention that stab wound in your thigh. You aren't walking anywhere right now." Alfred made a sound of agreement from across the room. Dick stared Tim down. "It's either a wheelchair or one of us carries you; take your pick."

Tim protested, but eventually wilted under the combined glares of Dick, Jason, _and_ Alfred, but he did succeed in convincing them to let him hitch a ride on Jason's back rather than being carried in his arms as if he were a young child or a blushing bride. That may not have been the win Tim needed however; the elevator ride up wasn't too bad, but by the time Jason had walked from the elevator to Tim's room, he was sorely regretting turning down the wheelchair so out-of-hand, emphasis on the word _sore_ \- damn, but, truly, his ribs **_hurt_**.

Dick jumped in to pull back the covers on Tim's bed and Tim made no protests as Jason slowly lowered him directly onto the mattress. He lay flat for a long minute, trying to breathe through the pain, while Jason shook his head at him and Dick ran down the hall to grab some extra pillows.

By the time Dick and Jason had finished propping him up at the most comfortable angle they could manage and building a veritable nest of pillows and blankets around him, Alfred bustled in with a tray containing two pills, several more oatmeal cookies and another tall glass of water. Alfred convinced him to eat at least one cookie before Tim grabbed the pills and took them both in a single swallow before he could second guess himself. Alfred instructed him to drink the rest of the water, warned that he would be back in a half hour to retrieve the glass, and then promptly herded Dick out of the room.

"Ughhhhh, finally," Tim moaned, leaning his head back into the pillows. "I just wanna sleep. I'm done having people stare at me non-stop like they think I'm gonna keel over or burst into flames or something if they look away."

Jason chuckled lowly, siting down on the edge of the bed, taking Tim's hand in both of his and squeezing gently. "Hate t' break it to ya, Timbo, but I'm gonna be staring at you for at least a couple more hours yet. At least until I'm sure you're actually gonna sleep through the night."

Tim raised his head again and smiled tiredly at the other man. "You I can handle. At least you won't try to hug my head off at the slightest opportunity or frown at me like I stomped through your petunias if I _do_ have trouble getting to sleep after all of this."

Jason grunted in the affirmative then reached over to grab the mostly-full glass of water. "Yeah, well, I can think of at least one person who will have our heads for sure if you don't finish this glass. So, drink up, Timmers."

Jason kept Tim company over the course of that half hour while Tim slowly sipped the water and the meds gradually kicked in. At one point, Tim tried to argue that Jason should leave to get some rest himself as soon as Tim fell asleep - "You need to sleep in a real bed, too, idiot" - but to put an end to the argument before it could upset the injured man any further, Jason simply climbed over him and settled into bed beside him. Tim let Jason win that one. The company would be nice to have, anyway, especially if he woke up in pain again later.

By the time Tim had nearly drained the glass, he was barely able to hold it upright anymore; the exhaustion made his limbs heavy, pulling him down inexorably as the pain receded and the antihistamines added extra drowsiness to the mix. The jury was still out on acetaminophen, but so far so good.

Tim was barely awake when Jason plucked the almost-empty glass from his hand then reached over Tim to set it on the bedside table. Tim's eyelids became so heavy and so difficult to keep open that eventually he gave up on trying. Jason pressed him back into the pillows and encouraged him to 'go with it', going very quiet and ignoring the mumbled, half-lucid questions Tim continued shooting at him well past closing his eyes, until, finally, the other man’s silence convinced Tim to give up on conversation and let himself drift.

He barely noticed when Alfred returned, only dimly aware of he and Jason speaking quietly over him.

"Sorry, Alf, he was out before he got to the bottom, but I made sure he drank most of it."

"That's quite all right, Master Jason, and thank you. I'm glad enough that he's finally resting as he should."

"Amen to that."

"I'll leave this new glass here in case he should need any water later on."

A cool, wrinkled hand laid itself on Tim's forehead and he shifted into the touch with a slight murmur.

"His fever is already coming down, from the acetaminophen, but we'll have to keep a close eye on his wounds to make sure the antibiotics take effect properly."

"Sure thing."

"Will you be staying here with Master Tim, then, Master Jason?"

"Yeah, I'll sleep here tonight."

"Very good. I'll leave the two of you to rest, then. I'll be by again in a few hours with more water and medication. Sleep well, Master Jason."

"Thanks, Alfred, you too."

Another, less wrinkly hand brushed a few strands of hair away from his forehead and then cool lips pressed firmly into his temple. The last thing he remembered was them moving against his skin, murmuring,

_"Rest easy now, Tim."_

And so he did.

**Author's Note:**

> I liked the idea for this one, but I don't know how to feel about how it turned out. If you enjoyed it, please leave me a note in the comments to let me know! Sometimes it's hard to know what anyone thinks of my stuff when I hardly ever get any feedback :(
> 
> Also, this is an interesting scholarly nursing article I dug up while doing research for this fic; I recommend reading it if you're interested in learning more on how unrelieved pain can slow the healing process and affect the general health of a patient: <https://www.nursingtimes.net/clinical-archive/pain-management/understanding-the-physiological-effects-of-unrelieved-pain/205262.article>
> 
> My DCU tumblr sideblog is [redrobinfection](http://redrobinfection.tumblr.com/). Link for this work on tumblr: [here](http://redrobinfection.tumblr.com/post/163076355426/adverse-reactions). Thanks for reading!


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